Chapter 28
EVIE
I walked out. I left him standing there. It felt necessary. Symbolic, with the quiet click of the door, when I wanted to slam it so hard, it would rattle the hotel walls.
I didn’t even have to avoid him in the evening, as he had a business dinner to attend. The first since I’d moved in, apparently. Stay until the bitter end? I wonder how many dinners and evenings out I’ll drive him to. Maybe I’ll get a reprieve, have my sentence shortened. Not even that thought makes me feel good.
“Was it this one?”
I snap back from my morose speculations and smile at the pedicurist. She’s holding a bottle of vivid, vampy red nail polish in her hand. “Sorry, I zoned out.”
“I’m just checking that Dart through the Heart was the shade you chose.”
“I’d settle for a knife.”
Yes, officer. The nail polish did make me do it.
“Sorry?” Her lovely (but improbable) lashes flutter rapidly.
“Silly joke.” I paint on a reassuring smile. “Yes, that’s the one.”
If this was a real relationship, I wouldn’t be sitting here (in his spa) beautifying myself for a night out with him. I’d be camped out in my pj’s, refusing to move.
Actually, no. If this was a real relationship, it wouldn’t be a relationship for very long. But it isn’t real, so here I sit, preparing for tonight—for the big one. The evening I’m expected to work magic when I don’t even have a wand.
Or an idea of what I’m getting into.
The past twenty-four hours have been a mess. I felt lonely. Trapped. I’ve needed someone to talk to, someone to help me process this mess, but I can’t tell Yara, and Riley isn’t back yet. Not that I could tell him, because where would I start? How could I begin to justify my actions, explain this anger—at myself, at Oliver. At a woman I’ve never met but suffered for.
Lucy. I wonder if she knows how much she’s hurt him. If she’s aware of the lengths Oliver is prepared to go to get over her.
Well, screw him, and screw her! I’m out of here the minute this is over. I’m done with feeling like a fool. Done with men that can’t be trusted. I’m gonna take up yoga, join a retreat in Goa. Detox. Become celibate. I’m going to—
“Can you just ...” The pedicurist smiles hesitantly up at me. “You keep tensing your feet.”
“Sorry.” I force my toes to relax. No need to make her job difficult.
My pulse picks up as my phone buzzes in my lap with a text. I don’t know what’s with the flutter. It’s not like I’m expecting any kind of apology. Besides, Oliver rarely ever texts. The freak of nature that he is prefers to call when he has a summons to issue.
Also, as far as I can tell, he never apologizes.
But it’s from Riley.
Riley: Ruben. Croque Madame. Bánh mì.
Evie: Slightly random.
Riley: War of the world of sandwiches. You have to choose.
I smile. I’ve missed this goofball. But still, this fair-weather friend needs a little kick up the butt.
Evie: Sure. It’s not like anything else is happening in my life. As far as you know, I might’ve been mauled by a pack of rabid dogs and have died a terrible death.
Riley: No rabies in UK. I thought the unicorn fckd the conversation out of you bcz I hvnt heard frm u, either.
Evie: A tip? Text in whole words if you want to get laid. Not an offer, by the way.
Riley: Tetchy! Wanna swap war stories? I’m back home waiting for surgery on this leg. Gotta have external fixators fitted, like a damned Frankenstein cage.
Evie: Ouch! Also, thanks for telling me.
I guess that makes sense why he hasn’t been in contact.
Riley: I thought Lori would’ve.
Urgh! If she wasn’t such a bitch, I might not be in this predicament.
Riley: I win in the misery mistakes. A broken leg and I miss real mayonnaise. The French stuff. Miracle Whip is like pasteurized hobgoblin jizz.
Evie: Did your mommy make you a sandwich?
Riley: An inedible one. She’s driving me crazy. Can’t wait to get out of here.
Evie: I’m sorry, Riley. Let me know how the surgery goes or if there’s anything you want me to do.
Riley: Tell me which sandwich. I’m dreaming of food.
Evie: Pork belly bao from that place we went in Oxford Circus.
Riley: Nice! Hey, as you’re offering, will you do me a favor?
Evie: Shoot.
Riley: Arrange to get my stuff sent from the hotel in France?
A friend in need is a pain in the ass, even when you’re feeling sorry for him.
Evie: Send me the name of the hotel and I’ll see what I can do.
I no sooner put down my phone then it buzzes again. I blow out a frustrated breath, though I make sure not to curl my toes again. I’m expecting Riley to have added something to my shit-to-do list. But it’s Yara.
Yara: Just so I’ve got this right, Oliver is only *one* of Europe’s most eligible men.
It seems someone’s been reading the City Chronicle .
Evie: You can’t believe everything you read in the tabloids.
Yara: I’m disappointed in you. You should’ve hung out for *the* most eligible man.
Evie: Ha. Funny. Just like my life.
Yara: Has he got any brothers? Step or otherwise? Second cousins twice removed, but not removed too far from the (I’m guessing) inherited wealth? Asking for your friend. Because I’m not jealous of the hot man in the snazzy suit. Or the Bentley I saw parked outside of Nora’s as I got into my ancient Fiat Punto the other day.
Evie: Your Fiat Punto is better than my ride.
Yara: Your ride is a billionaire.
What follows is a row of laughing emoji, followed by eggplants.
Evie: How did the war of the red panties go the other night?
Yara: A seamless change of topic? No blood was shed though I did think of euthanizing them both. I also thought of you being railed enthusiastically by the hot billionaire when they were shouting at each other.
Evie: I don’t know how to respond to that.
Yara. I wasn’t imagining you going at it! More like ... and here I am with this pair of fuckwits. The words DICKING and DOWN sprung to mind. Just so you know, as your friend, I am here for the vicarious living.
Evie: I’ll bear that in mind.
God knows what she’d think if I told her the truth. Probably that I’m an idiot for fooling myself into believing that anything good could come of this. All he ever does is veer from sweet to asshole, then back again.
Yara: He let you into his car in a wedding dress. That man is down to be your rebound. And I KNOW someone who looks as buttoned up as that has GOT to be a little freaky under those fancy threads.
Evie: Those fancy threads are exactly what make him not my type.
Maybe I should have that tattooed to the inside of my eyelids: I’m not into men with money.
Yara: Said no woman ever.
She sends me another line of laughing emoji.
But it’s true. Because men with money run roughshod over everyone.